


And On The Second Day

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual, Dom Greg, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Kink, M/M, Self-revelation, Sub Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 14:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Action--but also review and contemplation. Both Greg and Mycroft use the day to consider what they are doing, what it means, how they are reacting, and to retrench and make further plans. Communication occurs.This one earns its "Explicit" and there is new material, but there's also review of old material from different points of view and in different contexts. In a strange way this one may underline how consensual this is more than anything to date. Which I concede is saying something. It's always been pretty loudly consensual.





	And On The Second Day

That morning had changed everything, Greg thought later. It took him awhile to work it through—but he began to twig almost immediately.

His beautiful boy knelt at his feet by the kitchen table, tenderly lapping soft scrambled eggs from his husband’s hand; nibbled crisp streaky bacon from his fingers; sipped hot tea from a mug Greg offered him.

He was so content. Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Mycroft so happy, or so at ease with himself.

The truth was it was a bit of a shock. It wasn’t that he had expected him to hate what was happening to him—he’d asked for what was happening. But his Mycroft was a man of many layers. The cold reserve of the Iceman. The tender but tart love of the elder brother. The frustrated, unrequited love of a son for whom the younger boy (and insane girl) would always be the children they’d wanted in the first place, where Mycroft was at best a “first try,” no more. The brilliant but detached analyst. Every aspect of who he was rested on a powerful element of pride and self-will.

Asking Greg to take that away from him? Demand he not only submit, but take away his dignity, humiliate him, use him as a slut and a toy? He’d had his doubts how long that would last. He smiled, a bit bewildered, as his beautiful boy, in his beautiful silks, nuzzled into his palm and brushed the slight stubble of his cheek against Greg’s knuckles. His body was relaxed. The muscles of his shoulders, always tense, sloped soft from under the feminine scarf worn hijab-style. His hands rested in his lap, just below the obscene, erotic little silk “skirt” that put his cock and balls on titillating display, surrounded by layers of heavy silk fringe that never provided more than token cover to all the flesh it framed.

His Mycroft had put up with close to two full days of intense symbolic and literal break-down. He’d submitted. He’d allowed himself to be cropped and thrashed to tears. He’d been taken at Greg’s will, entirely as the submissive partner… Greg had been waiting for all that time for the first safeword, the first balking refusal. None had come.

His husband had not only complied—but responded, clearly aroused, clearly in a near agony of desire when denied climax, hovering in writhing need as he was milked through wave after wave of near-climax interrupted. He’d planned his own added humiliations. His eyes had lingered in desperate hunger on the black sapphire ring he’d given Greg when they took vows in the private, secret marriage Mycroft had asked for…as though the ring symbolized something beyond words and hunger, beyond anything Mycroft could even say.

Greg shivered, wondering how far his husband could go—how far he wanted to go. He was enjoying this interlude—but he’d first married the proud, independent, even arrogant Mycroft, not the meek slut who responded so powerfully to being used and abused: ridden hard and put away wet. Could Greg take this as far as Mycroft wanted it?

“Sweet bae,” he whispered, and stroked his boy’s pretty lips, still dark with garnet lipstick. “I want you to clean the kitchen, now. Your husband cooked brekkers. You can clean it up.”

“Yes, Greg,” his boy replied. “May I have an hour or so after to myself?”

Greg considered. This could be a plea to be denied—a hope Greg would take that liberty away from him, strip him of his dignity in one more way. Or it could be a real request.

“Want to tell me why, sweet cheeks? I had you booked in for an hour tied on the bed with a vibrator up your arse and a that fat dummy plugging your mouth.”

“If you wish I will gladly comply,” Mycroft said, eyes flashing a deep desire. “But there is time. I merely wanted time to…process. To think.” He studied the carpet under his knees, and his voice went hoarse. “It’s been an enlightening few days. I believe I’ve learned things. But some I won’t recognize without some thought.”

Greg considered. “I don’t mind. I—you could have the bedroom. Or the spare guest room. Or if you want to keep to patterns I could put you in the pantry or make you sit out in the garden. Or—we could go for a two-fer. Tie you up with your arse in the air, shove that dummy in, and let you think for a few hours. What’s your pick, baby boy?”

He could see goosebumps cover his boy’s skin, and his lips fill as desire hit.

“Um…” He licked his lips. In his lap his cock stirred in its nest of russet fringe. “No vibrator. I wouldn’t be able to think from then on. I’d just be your hot boy with your toy up my arse, waiting for you to use me…on fire with it.” He ducked his head. “What about that cock ring and cock trap you used the other day, leashed to that ring in the floor by the cushion? Give me a pencil and paper and let me lie on the dog bed, and you could refuse to let me up till I’m actually done thinking.”

Greg snorted. “Clever boy. My captive slut till you do the work you want to do.” He laughed. “Yes, boy. Go pee, come back, and I’ll lock you down with a pile of typing paper and a pencil.”

Mycroft nodded, rose gracefully, and was soon back, kneeling on the dog cushion in the sitting room. He spread his legs, and Greg rearranged his silk fringe to trap both his cock and balls in one tricky cock trap that would put him in pain if he tried to pull against the leash locked to a ring in the floor. Then Greg handed him the paper and pencil and retreated to the arbor with his laptop to edit the hours of film already taken of their “sex holiday” into a hot, dramatic series of mini-dramas.

It was unnerving. He hadn’t ever seen himself as so authoritative, even as a copper. He hadn’t seen his Mike as so submissive. And yet, there it was…and both of them clearly enjoying it. Mike was so… So…

God. Looking at his boy naked of all but silks—the aqua green-blue of yesterday, or the lush rust and gold of today? On his knees? Sucking Greg’s cock down in the shower the morning before? Doing what he was told, no matter how demeaning? Accepting Greg assigning him the role of slut, twat, cunt, whore…

And living up to it? Being such a good little trollop, no matter what?

The stories played out, as he hovered uneasy over which of a dozen shots he wanted to adapt as close-ups and as wide-open-arse shots and as… Modern computer tech allowed him to play the film as though it were a live camera, pulling in, drawing out, switching from hidden camera to hidden camera, telling the story of a willing submissive cunt. Or…telling another story.

He found the other story winning. An intelligent man, leaning passionately into a role that let him be passionate without taking over control. That made him explore what he liked that wasn’t controlled. He caught the quiver of eyelashes as his Mike reacted to a command. He found an angle in the thrashing out on the rooftop that showed the tears leaking down Mycroft’s face—as his cock quivered and jerked in desire, in spite of each cracking stroke of the belt. Because of each cracking blow of the belt. He pulled in on Mike’s face as the enema wand slipped in and the water gushed into his intestines: humiliation, but also victory.

Something about this was setting Mike free. Not destroying the pride or arrogance, but in some way feeding it. Greg pulled up a shot of Mike seeing himself in today’s silks for the first time: the awe. The desire—the sense of himself as sexy in a way that roused him. Mycroft finding himself to be sexy. Then Mycroft on his knees, jerking himself off inside Greg’s silk handkerchief, cock-bells jingling with every stroke of his wrist, and with every driving shove from Greg, behind him, cock up Mike’s arse. In bliss, forced to give himself to his own fantasy, taking away his right to hide from it.

He worked an hour. Two hours. A third. At last he had to go inside to use the head and get some coffee. He cut past Mike on the way.

His husband knelt, facing the lead that tied him to the floor. His silks were arranged around him. The glittering dangles screwed tight to his nipples swung lightly as he jotted notes onto typing paper. Pages filled with notes sat beside him.

“Making progress, bae?”

Mike looked up, for all the world as though he were dressed in one of his bespoke three-pieces in his office in their main flat. “Very much so, thank you!” he said. “It’s quite interesting.”

“Any revelations I should know about?”

Mike smiled. “Save enemas for rare occasions: I respond, but I doubt it will ever become a personal first choice. Establishing your control over my body does work, though—this cock cage is a particularly effective and devious little device, as is the butt plug you used the first day. Making me feel at risk works well. Making me admit I want this works very well. Making me call myself a slut and a cunt works very well. Calling me names yourself? Variable. Using me as a slut and cunt works very well—rubbing in that I exist for your pleasure, not my own. Intruding on my assumptions of body integrity do work. That’s why you can keep the enemas for occasional use. Anything that makes me feel like my choices are not mine anymore, but yours.” He gathered up the completed pages and offered them. “If you’re interested?”

“Later, yes. Now, now. Working on other surprises,” Greg said, already impressed how much effective information he’d just been handed. He smiled. “What a good bae you are. Are there any clever abuses you’d like me to accomplish that you can pass along?”

Mike turned bright red, and flustered.

“Tell, baby. Your husband wants to hear it.”

“@p0c*(ea…,” he whispered.

“What’s that?”

Mycroft blushed even deeper red, and his cock quivered and rose, setting cock-bells chiming and tightening the loose lead attached to his cock cage. “Cock warmer,” he husked.

“What?”

“Sit between your knees and just…hold your cock in my mouth. As long as you want. Like being able to stay inside as long as you like, hard-on or not.”

Greg felt a smile growing. What man hadn’t dreamed a bit of being able to just stay in the warm and the wet as long as he wanted? But cocks fell out: out of arses, out of cunts. Once he’d climaxed, a man knew he’d be slipping out into the cold, soon. It would only last so long. And blow jobs were worse—partners with sore jaws inevitably disengaged as soon s they could.

He thought of sitting, legs spread wide, his boy on his knees, mouth wrapped around Greg’s soft, relaxed cock, warm and gentle and not trying to wring a climax out of him. The ultimate passive luxury…

Mike looked up at him, lashes fluttering, blush still intense. “I see you like the idea.”

“Oh, yes, bae. Count on it. I’ll make you my cock warmer before this week is over. Tied up, or free?”

Mike shivered. “Both.”

“It’s a deal. Now, put the paper down, and go to the bedroom. You’ve thought hard enough, lover. Gonna tie you up and stick that vibrator in now. Make you focus on being my hot little fuck-toy for awhile.” He leaned down and unlocked the lead, and carefully removed the cock-cage, pushing the woven ends toward each other and opening the tube wide. He resettled the cock bells on his lover’s cock, and resettled him in his layers of silk fringe.

“So—more silks. I thought you felt an idiot in silks?”

“I do. But…” Eyelashes fluttered, and his boy blushed. “Such a sexy idiot.”

Greg smiled. He’d brought a range with him, because he didn’t think he himself wanted to deal with nothing but Mycroft in naked skin for nine days: two weekends and a business week. But he lived in a modern world, with modern “same day delivery.” If his boy was enjoying being dressed up and made to cope with his own beauty, it was easy to arrange.

He made Mycroft eat a yogurt and fruit and drink a bottle of water, then go to the loo. Then wash himself and douche himself, to return him to the morning’s high standard of perfect cleanliness. Then he settled his boy on the bed, legs splayed wide, pillows supporting his head and upper body to make breathing easy and safe, arms tied above his head, using the wide leather cuffs that were part of his body. He clipped a leash to his boy’s collar, and tied that to the headboard, too. Then he lay down for a little while, kissing his possession, playing with his body, setting hot, red marks along his collar bones. When Mike was restless and wriggling, he popped on a tight cock ring to keep him trapped in erection, then slipped the big vibrating bum plug into him, and turned it on. When Mike wailed in need, he slipped the big dummy into his mouth, stifling his cries.

“I want you to think about me taking you again, while you wait there,” he murmured. “That’s a command. If your mind drifts, turn it back. You think about all the ways I could fuck you and pick one you’d like best.”

Mike nodded. He was still squirming and whining when Greg returned to the rooftop arbor.

As he worked, he ran Mike’s conclusions through his mind—and also considered the calm, confident analyst who’d knelt in front of him, silks flowing down his arse, cock trapped and tied to an eye ring in the floor. “His” daily, ordinary Mike coming out to talk. Whatever this week was doing, it wasn’t breaking his man.

He considered ways to take him…ways that took his sense of control out of his hands. That rubbed in that Greg owned his body entirely this week.

He finished the edits he wanted to do by midafternoon. He went into the house, to the bedroom. Without saying a word, he stripped and stood by the bed, eyes on his husband. He gripped his own cock and pumped—a lazy, confident motion, pulling himself to erect interest in a matter of a minute.

Mike met his eyes, his own wide and caught between blushing embarrassment, fear, and desire. He wriggled, and mumbled around the dummy in his mouth. His cock waggled back and forth in the air.

Greg went around to the foot of the bed and climbed up. He knelt between Mike’s wide-spread thighs. He toyed with the cuffs that held those legs firm—but didn’t release them. He stroked his fingers up Mycroft’s inner thighs, eyes locked on his lover's, never looking away. He caressed his torso. Ran his fingers down his flanks. Palmed his balls, stroking them gently, tugging them less gently. He leaned over him, twisting the tight screws of the dangles on his nipples tighter. He reached up, back stretching, and nipped his jaw. Sucked marks onto his clavicles. Tugged and twisted the flat head of the vibrator, pushing it in and out, making Mycroft moan into the dummy.

When he was ready himself, he pulled the butt plug out of his lover’s arse, and dove in, hard. He took his time. Pleased himself. Met Mike’s eyes over and over, trying to communicate in every way his choice to indulge himself…that this was a pleasure he was taking, and if Mike enjoyed it too, well good enough.

As he finished Mike went into a round of near-climax again, hips bucking as he tried to find friction, to overcome the cock ring. His cock bells jingled madly. He grunted in despair when the waves died down, leaving him still hard in his cock ring.

When Greg was done he got up, went to the bathroom, cleaned himself. Came back. Dressed. He plunged the vibrating butt plug back in Mycroft’s bum, and turned it to max.

He left. Without saying a word. As he left, he heard his husband groan around the dummy in his mouth, and thrash on the bed, unsatisfied.

He smiled, already seeing the images he’d be editing soon: the despair and the failed satisfaction and the need.

He took Mike two more times that evening. He refused to let him climax any of those times. Only at the end did he free him—and then he ordered his man to jack himself off, slow and sexy. He told him he had to go for at least twenty minutes—and he had to come when he was done.

Then he sent him to the bathroom to douche again.

Mycroft ate out of Greg’s hands for dinner. He slept on the floor by the bed that night, hands bound so he couldn’t touch himself, though he heard Greg jacking off in pleased contentment in the dark.

In the morning he was washed like a dog in the bathtub, and went out to find new silks that made him blush laid out for him on the bed, along with silken ropes.

At the foot of the bed a television stood on a tv cart.

Greg smiled at him.

“I have movies for you to watch, sexy boy. Such filthy, sexy movies. Now climb into those silks, get up on this bed, and let me tie you up. I want to fuck you while you watch.”

Mike shivered at the thought…and both men rejoiced, knowing this would be good.


End file.
